My Muse
by William Easley
Summary: Following the events of "Lovers' Leap," Stanford Pines picks up pen and journal and for a time just reflects on life, family, fate, belief . . . in other words, he just, you know . . . muses. Short one-shot.


_I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters; both are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch. I make no money from these stories but write just for fun and in the hope that other fans enjoy reading them. I will ask, please, do not copy my stories elsewhere on the Internet. I work hard on these, and they mean a lot to me. Thank you._

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**My Muse**

(July 17, 2017)

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**From the Journals of Stanford Pines: **I am so grateful that Mason and Wendy survived the ordeal on the ledge with relatively minor injuries. I little thought when I idly recorded the legend of the lost treasure of Kiesano that one day a young relative of mine would face great peril because of it.

"Kiesano," by the way, is a version of a Chinook tribe name that seems extinct. At least, no living persons self-identify as Kiesanos. From what I have learned, I speculate that sometime in the seventeenth century, the remnants of the Kiesano people intermarried with, and were absorbed by, the still-extant Willapa. That is the only way that Leon Markheim could claim descent from the ancient chief of the Kiesanos who forbade his daughter to marry a European and who led his warriors on a disastrous crusade against the Ghost Bear.

However, I cannot be sure even of that. "Kiesano" seems to be a Western attempt to record the sound of a Chinookian word that might translate as "the Lost" or even "the Doomed." It could be something other than a tribal name—perhaps a descriptive word of the tribe's sad fate.

I did not know that thirty-odd years ago when I came across the legend, though. And these fragments I have pieced together through study, through discussions with some Elders of various Chinook groups and with those of the Siwash—perhaps ironically, I have discovered that in itself is a Chinook word meaning "savages," applied to Native American groups who lived in the Pacific Northwest but who were unrelated to the Chinooks.

How vividly I recall reading Stevenson's _Treasure Island _when Stanley and I were boys, twelve years old. Stanley didn't have the patience to read the story, so I retold it to him. I could see his eyes glow as Stevenson spoke of pieces of eight, moidores, bar gold, and other piratical booty. Many duels we had on the shores of an imaginary Treasure Island, or aboard the good schooner _Hispaniola!_

Stanley always wanted to play the part of Long John Silver, while I had to be Doctor Livesey or—ugh!—Squire Trelawney. While Stanley got to exclaim, "Shiver me timbers, ye lubber! Dead men don't bite!" and such, I was reduced pretty much to "Ha, Silver!" and "Gadzooks!" and such utterances. And when I read aloud to Stanley the chapter in which Jim Hawkins described the grotto crammed with treasures, he kept saying, "Wait, Sixer, read that part again!"

Anyway, before I slipped into sentimentality, I was about to write that at this point, regarding the coins left in the cliffside cave, my opinion is the same as Jim Hawkins's in the last chapter of _Treasure Island: _"The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for all of me."

Aye, Jim lad, says I. Let that little pile of coins remain there forever, as far as I am concerned. I think the same goes for Mason, whose joy is more in the discovery than in the possession. But if Stanley can get another hearty "Yo-ho, my lads!" out of it, far be it from me to deny him.

My strongest regret is how Stanley and I became estranged for so long. I have come to realize that, in so many ways, Stanley is a far better man than I shall ever be, and it is my honor to call him brother. And I hope he never reads this.

Now—I have been putting this point off, but—Bill Cipher.

I recall all too vividly the terrors that Cipher put us through. When I was still on the sunny side of forty, he duped and deluded me, claiming to be my Muse; and indeed, for a time, he seemed to inspire me, to help me, and to urge me on to new and grander discoveries. If only I had known then how ruthless, how conscienceless, he really was—

Honestly, I'm angry all over again, thinking of how he set poor Fiddleford on the road to madness, how he tricked me and then eluded me when I sought revenge, how he hurt my family here in the Valley—

Enough of that. It's water over the dam. Both then and then after my return to this dimension, Cipher was a terror—chaotic, twisted, narcissistic, destructive, utterly disregardful of the rights or even of the existence of others. I feel certain that Jheselbraum, at least, shares my low opinion of Cipher; but she must agree to abide by the decisions of the Axolotl, the Keeper of All Realities, and the Axolotl has decided that Bill—even Bill Cipher!—merits one final chance.

So. I have to admit that at first when the topic of the so-called Ghost Bear arose, my initial suspicion was that the creature was either an escapee from the Nightmare Realm who entered our world when Cipher ripped open the sky and madness and monsters poured through; or else it was some horror actually created by Cipher, perhaps in ancient days, to torment the Native Americans. I know their shamans were familiar with Cipher from having studied their pictographs in various caves (N.B. one location is actually an extension of the cavern behind Gravity Falls Falls; I wonder if the outlet on the cliff might be a continuation of that grotto).

One of the pictographs actually inspired me to create the Zodiac. I still think its power might have worked, might have repelled Cipher and sealed up the rift, if we had all been in harmony with each other, but Stanley and I—well, we childishly kept up our grudges and our disagreements and lost the chance. I blame myself more than Stanley. If I had not been such a—well, Mabel tells me that the internet term is "Grammar Nazi," a nasty enough description, but fitting—then we would have won the struggle with Cipher.

However—and I have only lately come to realize what a huge point this is—if we had banished Cipher from our universe _he would still exist, with all his powers intact, in the Nightmare Realm. _

What I foresaw was a victory; what we could achieve, I see now, was at best a stalemate and at worst a temporary setback for Cipher, who would have continued to haunt those like me, prideful, driven, bright but in a key way stupid. And sooner or later he would have found his way in.

So perhaps the Axolotl's way is the best. If Billy Sheaffer can absorb the energies of Cipher without being corrupted by them—well, that gives me hope.

Our world is in pretty sad shape. Even after only thirty years away, I can see how much we have lost in species diversity, in damage to our environment, in abuse of what we should hold dear. I had a curious dream not long ago: A grown man, blond, with a kind face, but only one eye—the other was beneath a patch—was supervising some vast enterprise.

I realized at last that he was in charge of reviving the Amazon rainforest—like a Johnny Appleseed on a hemispheric scale. And that he was nurturing faltering species of plants and animals, literally bringing them from the brink of extinction. And that he had millions of followers working equally hard to save this small bright blue sphere of ours.

In the dream, I asked the Oracle, who somehow stood near me—"Is this possible? Is this really Bill Cipher?"

And she said to me, "Possibly."

But I cannot deny that somehow Billy Sheaffer did a good act last night. The fish he summoned may very well have made the difference between Mason's drowning and his survival. And I am impressed that Mason told me Billy has said he owes the fish a debt and that he can never go fishing for them again, or eat their flesh.

Possibility. It is a thin reed to lean on, but—well.

Stanley claims to be an atheist, but I know him too well to believe that. He told me he thought I would be an atheist, too, because of "all that science deal." However, I have myself seen and spoken to ghosts. I have dealt with god-like creatures (and demonic ones, too). I told him I'm an agnostic.

But the more I see of the dimensions and of the dwellers therein, the less sure I am of my own doubt!

For what it's worth, right here and now, I intend to lean on that thin reed. Last night, as I aimed the quantum destablilizer, hoping it would do what I needed, I actually murmured the words, "God help."

It is not an eloquent prayer, but it may just become my mantra. God help. Because we all need help now and then. And lest I sound ungrateful—to whatever forces have worked to help Mason and Mabel grow up to be such fine young people, to whatever guided my aim and watched over those three lost souls, father, daughter, and son-in-law, and gave them peace and release at last, to what or whoever has made us the family we are—

Humbly, I say, "Thank you."

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The End


End file.
